


malachite

by lovelylogans



Category: Cartoon Therapy, Thomas Sanders, Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Cartoon Therapy - Freeform, Dubious Consent, M/M, Mention of sex with a minor, Nondescriptive racism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-17
Updated: 2018-01-17
Packaged: 2019-03-05 23:34:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13398630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovelylogans/pseuds/lovelylogans
Summary: Elliott picked Dr. Picani from the Google results of couples therapists in their area and price range for three reasons.One, because he was highly rated, and because Mitchell would want someone who knew what they were talking about.Two, because when Elliott had mentioned to Sadie that they were starting to look for a therapist and would maybe like some help picking one out, Sadie had liked Picani's web design, which apparently made all the difference in the world to her.Three, because he looked soft, and bright, and different, and Mitchell liked people who were soft and friendly and quiet, and Elliott knew how much the world liked to stomp on people who were different and thought that this man probably did too.A character study in out-of-order snippets.





	malachite

**Author's Note:**

> over winter break, i did a lot of thinking about a particular relationship of mine. i went back and rewatched cartoon therapy and had the uncomfortable realization that i related to elliott much more than i did upon first viewing. a lot of this, but not all of it, is based off my own experience. i don't quite know what i'm doing. what i will do. i suppose elliott's on a bit of a precipice too.

Elliott didn't tend to think of themself as lonely.

They had never really  _needed_ people; they were satisfied enough to sit quiet in a corner with a book or a window and let their thoughts unspool themselves in dizzying, wonderful tangents, even when they were young, and especially now that they were older. They were satisfied to leave most of those thoughts sitting in their head, or let them etch their way out of their hands; if they ever needed someone to pay attention to them, they had a small, select circle of friends that would change and vary and fade with age. 

In the midst of long nights when they couldn't sleep (insomnia, inherited from both parents) or times when the tangents in their head were less  _wonderful_ and more saddening, no matter what they tried to focus on, of course they felt lonely. Everyone felt lonely at some point. 

They tried to reassure themself of that, even though it seemed like the whole world drifted past them most days, full of happy people and pairs and trios and quartets all picked out with them at the sideline, watching, waiting. They tried to reassure themselves that they had people on their side, on their team.

Mitchell's the first one they think of on their team, some days.

* * *

Words and phrases got stuck in Elliott's head like songs, sometimes. A turn of phrase, the way someone  _said_ a turn of phrase, and they'd turn it over and over in their head, replaying it like an audio file, thinking about each word and the emphasis placed on each word and what they knew about each word. Sometimes it was something silly: for a whole week, they couldn't get Sadie singing " _green is not a creative color"_ under her breath out of their head. 

"What are you thinking?" Mitchell would ask, because this was a game he liked to play whenever he was in a good mood. _What are you thinking,_ and Elliott would tell him, and Mitchell would either talk about it or look at Elliott like a code he was trying to decipher. 

After the day they'd spent finally talking with Picani, it would only figure that a phrase would stick in their head.

_Okay, now, I don't want to assume, or label your fusion as anything it's not._

Elliott poked at their salad with their fork, turning it over and over and over in their head; the slight crease in Picani's brow, the way he had slowed his gesturing, the hesitance.

_But there is another fusion in Steven Universe that might be worth mentioning._

"What are you thinking?" Mitchell asked.

"Kazakhstan," Elliott said, not looking up, counting the little puncture holes in the lettuce their fork had made.

_Malachite._

He had said it nearly fearfully, as if even mentioning it would summon up, like some kind of fucked-up cartoon version of Voldemort. But there had almost been respect, too.

_Malachite. Malachite. Malachite._

Elliott glanced up to see Mitchell shaking his head, unsmiling, and looking down at his plate. Elliott looked down too.

Silence reigned.

* * *

Mitchell hadn't wanted to call himself their boyfriend, for a long time at the start. Elliott actually didn't, either, but that was because they hadn't found a good dating term for nonbinary people yet. Elliott forgot how it came up, but now they were talking about it.

"Why make it complicated, you know?" He asked, from where they were lying side by side on Mitchell's bed, atop the covers. It was a common position. Mitchell was twining their fingers together, and both of them were looking at their hands, instead of at each other. "We are what we are. We know it."

Elliott hummed in vague agreement. Mitchell was practically a furnace against their side, even at the start of winter, when everything was starting to die and dew easily turned to frost. Well. As much as it did in Florida.

Mitchell pressed his palm against Elliott's, and exclaimed over how small Elliott's fingers were in comparison to his. 

* * *

The first week Elliott went to Dr. Picani's, they waited silent and worried and alone in the waiting room. They sent texts to Mitchell: asking if there's traffic, if there's a holdup at work. There was no response back, and Dr. Picani cut himself off mid-song at the look at Elliott's face.

"Do you how do?"

Elliott blinked at him, owlish, grip tight on their phone. "What?"

"Are you okay?" Picani asked, still standing at the door, and Elliott looked down at their phone, then back at Picani.

"I—I think there's something wrong," they said, and stood fast, Picani and Elliott swapping places in what felt like the blink of an eye.

"I hope everything turns out okay," Picani told them. "Contact me about rescheduling, all right?"

Elliott could barely even nod before they were flying down the stairs, to the car, where they drove twenty miles over the speed limit to get home, frantic over thirteen missed messages.

They walked into the house to see Mitchell, sitting on the couch, playing video games, phone within an arm's reach. Before Elliott could say anything, it lit up and dinged.

Elliott's fists clenched.

* * *

Words and phrases got stuck in Elliott's head like songs, sometimes. Elliott had a very good audio recall memory, and could craft sentences in people's voices, anyone they knew well, anyone they had heard talk for long periods of time. Like they were talking to them, except that it just happened in Elliott's head. They had confused real conversations with mental ones for years.

It sometimes unsettled them, how clearly they could picture Mitchell spitting venom, and how clearly they could picture Mitchell's sleepy sweet murmurs. Sometimes, they put those images up side by side, and every time, Elliott would think their way around the question of _which one is the most real?_

* * *

Sadie's voice sounded almost exactly the same over the phone, except for the filter that came whenever someone spoke on the phone. But it was Sadie's voice, real and saying words of her own and not words Elliott imagined for her, so they welcomed it.

"Soooo," she said, dragging the word out, snapping bubblegum into the speaker. "Mitch-ell."

"Mitchell," Elliott said brightly, without the sarcastic edge of Sadie's words.

"I still don't know how I feel about that dude," she said, and they could imagine her now: lying on her stomach on her bed, chewing cheap gum dusted with powdered sugar, a slightly disdainful sneer twisting her lips. Doing something else too; scrolling on her laptop, probably, or maybe clicking her way through TV channels. Folding laundry.

Elliott sighed. "That first time was just... weird. He's been really nice, and I think I'm starting to like him in a not-platonic way, okay?"

"Weird? _Elliott_. You had me call you out of there. That's a crisis situation."

Elliott shrugged, knowing she couldn't see them, and said, "Well, I've been over to his house three times since, and he's been nothing but gentlemanly. He made me dinner last time. It was actually pretty good."

"Mhm," Sadie said. "May I point out to the jury that the last time we were talking on the phone and not face to face, you told me that he creeped you out?"

"First impressions can be wrong," Elliott said. 

She sighed, and murmured, "All right, Elliott. Fine. You're the one who knows the guy, not me."

A pause, and then Sadie said, "Wait, what do you mean, you're starting to like him in a  _not-platonic_ way?! _El!_ Spill, immediately!"

* * *

They probably shouldn't have worked, that was the thing. 

Mitchell liked working out, video games, and sports. Elliott liked reading, daydreaming, and music. Mitchell liked rap and Elliott preferred pop. Mitchell was interested in business and science whereas Elliott was much more into the humanities and the arts. Their senses of humor aligned only sometimes. Mitchell loved the company of other people whereas Elliott shrank from too much attention. Their friends didn't have much in common either; Elliott's friends could barely stand Mitchell, and Mitchell's friends often looked at Elliott as though they had antlers sprouting from their head. Mitchell hated watching dance but loved to dance and Elliott was the precise opposite. Mitchell kept careful track of his social events, work events, and family events in a meticulous planner whereas Elliott kept a tumultuous, constantly shifting list in their head. Mitchell ate meat and Elliott was vegan.

They had things in common too.

They both hated tomatoes. They both took French as their language requirement in high school, and they both could suss out a weak, poorly-accented conversation if they really tried. They both liked superhero movies, they both preferred Marvel to DC, and they both were Team Cap. They both loved those shitty grocery store sugar cookies, with icing an inch thick. They both liked to watch vine compilations. They both preferred waffles to pancakes, but considering neither of them owned a waffle iron they ate pancakes more often. They both liked meandering midnight drives. 

Elliott wasn't sure which of those were the important categories. They thought that was maybe the point.

* * *

Elliott was fully aware that they were thinking and speaking in clichés when it came to Mitchell.

 _He's different when he's with me,_  they wanted to say.

 _There's a sweet side to him I really wish he was here to show you,_  they told Dr. Picani.

 _I'm sorry, it's not as bad as I make it sound. I'm just complaining too much,_  they tried to tell Sadie, before Sadie cut them off very firmly.

 _I know it sounds bad when I say this—_ Elliott hedged, before changing the subject before they could actually say it.

They knew. Of course they knew.

Mostly, they were just tired.

* * *

"Oh, man, I really hope Elliott doesn’t open the closet door, I’m all out of ammo,” Mitchell yelled from where he had taken up base in the same closet they had their first kiss in. Elliott examined their Nerf gun, and paused to swap out their third-full clip with a completely stocked one, tucking the one that was a third full under their arm.

Elliott paused, took up a space where they could hide behind the door and shoot at Mitchell before Mitchell could shoot at them, and flung open the door, squeezing the trigger as fast as they could.

“Argh!” They heard Mitchell yell, and peeked around the door, stabilizing the gun with two hands as they shot, aiming downwards, because Mitchell had curled up in a ball, arms over his face, and Elliott did their best movie villain cackle as they shot at him, Mitchell squeaking out “Mercy! Mercy!”

Elliott, grinning, over the cacophony of tiny felt bullets pelting their boyfriend, said, “I told you the same thing when we were sword-fighting, and what was it that you told me when you were tickling me to death?”

“AGH! Elliott! Uncle!”

“No relatives were involved in your previous statement,” Elliott said, examining the clip even as they aimed for Mitchell’s butt. Half full. “ _You_  told me that there were no laws in love and war. _And then you reached for my behind my knees,_  otherwise known as _the tickliest area of all.”_

Mitchell’s hands were covering his face, and he yelped as the first Nerf bullet hit his butt, back arching. “This isn’t fair!”

“I happen to recall you _also_  telling me that life isn’t fair, Mitch, tables turn when you tell your opponent straight up that _you are out of ammo.”_

At last, when Elliott’s clip ran out and Elliott had to sit down from laughing too hard, Mitchell picked up Elliott’s gun and snorted.

“You _jerk,_  did you reload just to fuck with me?”

“You told me you were out of ammo! You told me to take advantage of weakness in war!”

Mitchell flicked a Nerf bullet at Elliott’s face.

* * *

The first time Elliott woke up with Mitchell pressed up against their back, an arm around their waist, the covers high around Elliot's shoulders, they think for about thirty seconds that it's nice, in a way they aren't used to, but then they feel the sweat dripping down their back, and how hot and stodgy the air is under the covers. They thought about how thirsty they were and how badly they wanted to just stick a limb out from under the blankets, just to get some cold air. Mitchell was breathing warm puffs of air against their neck. 

 _Octopus boy,_ they thought, unbidden and smiling, and cannot help but notice how Mitchell has tangled his legs with theirs and he hadn't had his arm around their waist when they went to sleep.

Then they remember the documentary they had seen once, an octopus wrapping its tentacles around a man, attempting to take the oxygen from his tank, from his mask, strangling and strong. How the diver had nearly drowned.

They think about how they cannot move, lest they wake Mitchell. A bead of sweat trailed uncomfortably down their back, and then another, and another. They think about orange tentacles wrapping around a man's head, and a videographer helplessly recording next to him.

Elliott closed their eyes again, and wished that for once their brain could just send a thought and leave it to be vaguely sentimental and sappy.

* * *

Words and phrases got stuck in Elliott's head like songs, sometimes. Questions Elliott would never be brave enough to ask, accusations waiting for Elliott to bring out at the next argument, because of course there would be another argument.

 _Do you know who I am?_  Elliott thought, staring at Mitchell's profile as Mitchell stared at the TV, tracking the football with an aggressive kind of fervor.  _Do you know who I am? I think I might be forgetting. I think that might be because of you._

Mitchell wrapped his arm around their shoulders, and during the next commercial break, he murmured, "What are you thinking about?" against the shell of Elliott's ear, because this was a game he played almost compulsively.

They closed their eyes. They were so very tired. Maybe they could fall asleep here. "The word  _arpeggio."_

* * *

Elliott put together all the little warning signs and wondered if they were warnings at all, or if they were just overreacting.

Mitchell never censored himself when he sang along to rap songs, even though he was white.

It had taken Elliott months to finally talk to Sadie about the times when Mitchell made them uncomfortable, because they knew what Sadie would tell them.

Mitchell had once made a shitty joke with a shitty punchline about slavery—Elliott can't remember the exact phrasing, they think their brain's scrubbed it away out of discomfort—and Elliott hadn't laughed. Mitchell had said, words edged in something Elliott didn't want to name, "It's almost like you don't think I'm funny, or something," and Elliott had smiled thinly and changed the subject.

Mitchell had told Elliott about the time when he was twenty and a boy was seventeen, the best friend of a horrible ex of his, and the way they'd made out, the way they'd had sex. He did not notice Elliott going still and silent beside him, attempting to map out the morality of all of that.

Mitchell's exes were all  _crazy,_ they were all  _ridiculous,_  they were all _horrible,_ he was glad to be done with them. 

Mitchell liked to poke and prod at Elliott's reactions to see exactly what they were thinking whenever they did or didn't laugh, ask why they thought he wasn't funny, was he not good enough, were they distracted with something else?

Mitchell would thud his hand against inanimate objects or punch them whenever he got angry.

Mitchell had never, not once, admitted that he might be the one who was in the wrong.

Every date Elliott went back to their apartment alone, they would curl up on the couch and attempt to persuade themself that they were tired because of the social interaction.

Whenever Elliott would cross their arms over their bare chest Mitchell would chide them and say "I want to see you," and every time Elliott thought  _but what if I don't want to be seen?_  

Mitchell would laugh, a counterpoint to Elliott's flinch, whenever someone got hurt in a supposedly funny video they would watch together.

It had taken Elliott and Mitchell meeting four times before Mitchell asked after what  _Elliott_ liked to do, what  _Elliott_ did with their free time.

There were a thousand abstract things that Elliott could only try to describe: the way Mitchell's face looked whenever he got upset, the way the line of his back would tense up whenever Elliott said something he didn't like, the time Mitchell had talked about liking boys when they were laying side-by-side on his bed and used more slurs about himself than Elliott was comfortable with, their first kiss, the way Mitchell had always made them a drink before they would mess around for the first few times at the start and tease Elliott for drinking it so slowly.

_Warning or overreacting? Warning or overreacting? Warning or overreacting?_

* * *

Words and phrases got stuck in Elliott's head like songs, sometimes. And Mitchell always wanted to chase after them. 

_I do not owe you the thoughts in my head. They are mine to think and mine to keep and I do not owe you the thoughts in my head._

"What are you thinking about?" Mitchell demanded from where he was cooking something on the stove, because this had stopped being a game a very long time ago and it seemed like Elliott was the only one who didn't want to play at pretending it still was.

"Did you know that otters keep a favorite rock in a special pouch in their armpit to use as a tool?"

_Do you know how much I have lied to you? Do you know how much safer I feel after lying to you?_

* * *

"I didn't even know they were open this late," Elliott mused as Mitchell squeezed their hand, tugging them towards the door. "Are you sure they're actually open and not closing up?"

"Twenty-four hours, Elliott," Mitchell said, pointing to the lit-up sign, before opening the door for them and, smiling at the hostess, grandly saying, "Table for two, please."

The hostess eyed them both suspiciously. Which was fair, as no one in their actual right mind went to Steak 'n Shake at three in the morning, before she sighed and asked, "Table or booth?"

"Booth," Elliott and Mitchell said in unison, and she led them to a table where sticky menus doubled as placemats. 

"What are you getting?" Mitchell asked, examining the menu.

"I am not a garbage disposal like you, you heathen, so probably just a shake," Elliott said, fixing their eyes on the dessert section of the menu and wondering vaguely about their vegan options.

"You're not getting any of my fries for that comment," Mitchell informed them loftily, and Elliott tried their hardest not to grin back.

It was so easy between them, (sometimes) the casual energy, the back-and-forth. It made Elliott feel a little less shy, a little more daring, a little more reckless (sometimes) and it was a feeling that only Mitchell could seem to coax out of them. 

The waitress dropped by a couple of glasses of water. Mitchell asked for some more time to think, and also her recommendations on the menu. Elliott ran their foot up and down Mitchell's calf as they wrapped their lips around their straw, glancing between the waitress and Mitchell.

The waitress walked away. Mitchell bumped his ankle into Elliott's, friendly, and blew his straw wrapper into Elliott's face, making them sputter and laugh.

Elliott ordered a mint chip vegan shake. Mitchell got chicken tenders, fries, and a peanut butter-chocolate shake.

After the waitress had walked away, Mitchell leaned forwards, and said in an undertone, "Dare you to call the cops in the bathroom."

"What?!"

"Tell them that I'm holding you hostage, or something," Mitchell urged.

"Oh, my God, I'm not doing that," Elliott said, edged in a disbelieving laugh.

"C'mon, where's your sense of adventure?" 

"Directing me away from the option that would lead to us spending the rest of the night in the county jail."

"They wouldn't  _arrest_ us," Mitchell scoffed, and a goofy grin burst bright across his face. "Question us a little, maybe."

"And that's supposed to be _more_ appealing?"

"Well, if you frame it the right way," Mitchell hedged, and Elliott grinned, leaning back.

"Go on, then."

Mitchell twirled his wrist, draping himself appealingly onto the table, and he fluttered his eyelashes at Elliott. "Oh,  _officer,"_ he said in a breathy voice, "I've been so  _bad._ "

Elliott's giggling snorts echoed loud in the skeletal restaurant, and Mitchell's booming laughter practically shook the windows.

* * *

One of the first realizations Elliott had about Mitchell was how badly he _needed_ people. 

It wasn't a particularly difficult deduction to make. Elliott and Mitchell met in a social setting, and even before they'd been formally introduced, Elliott had taken note of the extrovert going around, shaking everyone's hands, joking brightly, sure that all of them would be the best of chums. 

Elliott didn't know why Mitchell had chosen  _them,_ of all people, to sit down next to, to coax into conversation, to give his number to them. They still didn't.

The longer Elliott knew Mitchell, the more obvious it became. Mitchell would always fill up any silence with some kind of small talk, especially within hearing distance of a stranger or a distant acquaintance. Mitchell got snappy and fidgety and fussy if he'd gone too long without seeing people, the same way Elliott got when they spent too  _much_ time around people. 

Maybe Mitchell liked the sound of other people's voices much more than Elliott did. Maybe it reassured him to voice his opinions, hear other opinions back. Maybe he just really liked making new friends that much. 

Elliott had never asked.

* * *

Sadie was painting her toes a bright, terrible, friendly shade of pink. Elliott was stuck awkwardly holding their hands in the air, because she'd painted their nails black and if Elliott didn't hold their hands in the air, they would smudge them. It was practically a law of science.

Sadie, however, was juggling her phone and the nail polish brush, because Sadie was physically incapable of smudging her nails. It was her superpower.

If Elliott's hands weren't in the air, they could probably fall asleep here. It felt like half their life was spent trying not to nod off, these days. As it was, though, their hands were starting to lose feeling, but Elliott resisted the urge to drop them.

"Do you wanna talk about it?" Sadie prompted, and it almost startled them, because they were so used to being  _asked_ if they were upset, not  _seen._ Sadie claimed their face was an open book and Mitchell said they were undecipherable. They weren't sure which was right. Maybe both. Maybe Sadie was just more fluent in the language of their face than Mitchell was.

Elliott let out a big, gusting sigh. "I know what you're going to say," they said.

"Well, you two  _should_ see a therapist," Sadie said, pragmatic, "but that doesn't mean I can't listen to you vent, El, that's what friends are for. Therapists are supposed to be neutral but _I_ am always on your side."

Elliott almost smiled, and opened their eyes so they could see how the light glinted off the wet sheen of their nails. "I don't know how to phrase it," they said.

"That's okay," Sadie said. "Take your time. Do the best you can."

So Elliott turned their words over and over in their head, and by the time they were permitted to lower their hands, shaking the feeling back into them, wincing at pins and needles, Elliott had the sentence they needed.

"I know how it'll sound."

"Say it anyways, just to be sure," Sadie said, setting aside her phone, which was a true indicator of how seriously she was taking this.

Elliott closed their eyes, so they didn't have to watch any kind of emotion play across Sadie's face. 

"I've had the realization that if I'm not telling you things about my relationship with Mitchell because I know what you would tell me, there's a reason I'm doing that."

A pause.

"What kind of things are you not telling me about your relationship with Mitchell," Sadie said, and even with their eyes closed, they could see the cautious look of concern on her face, the way she would have gone entirely still and focused all her attention on Elliott with the force of a wrecking ball. Being under Sadie's full attention felt a lot like being trapped under the spotlights, and Elliott had never been much of a performer.

"Because you have already told me things about Mitchell that make me really,  _really_ concerned, El, and if there's other things that you're hiding because you might make  _me_ uncomfortable—"

"Like," Elliott began, and took a shuddering breath. "Like he never listens to me when I tell him not to say certain things, and I know he'll never listen, so I've just stopped fighting it anymore. And if he says it in a joke, I never laugh, and then he starts demanding to know why I don't laugh."

"What kind of things?" Sadie said in a hush, and Elliott waved a hand, eyes still closed.

"Just— _things._ A lot of things."

"Offensive things," Sadie guessed, and Elliott nodded.

"It's not your job to teach him what's okay to say or not, El. You said you tried already?"

Elliott nodded again.

"And he doesn't listen."

"He _never_ listens," Elliott said, surprising themself with the venom of it. "He leaves me on my own in public, he never does his share of the chores, I can't remember the last date we went on, we can barely even start a conversation without arguing, anymore. I'm just—" Elliott took another breath, felt their lungs strain with the capacity of it, and let it out. "I'm just  _tired_ of it, Sades. Of all of it."

A pause, and then, "Elliott, can I touch you?"

Elliott swallowed. "Yeah," they said, and did not open their eyes as Sadie wrapped up their hand in both of her own.

"El," Sadie began, and started tracing a path through their knuckles that made sense to only her. " _Honey_. This is why I keep talking about therapy for you. Because I can hardly remember the last time you came to me and told me something  _happy_ about Mitchell. And it's  _scaring_ me because you just told me there are things you _aren't_ telling me about, that makes me wonder about the other things you've been keeping to yourself. And I—" her fingers wrapped around their hand and squeezed. "I don't want you to be  _unhappy,_ El, that's the thing I want least in the world."

Elliott managed a smile, and said to the color exploding behind their eyelids, "The world would be a lot better if you were in charge of it."

"Terrifying," Sadie informed them. "That's a marker of how dark your mental state is, if you want me in charge of the world."

Elliott snorted, and Sadie said, "So, if you're unhappy... I guess the first question is, how do we fix it?"

"You don't have to—"

"You're my friend, El, I'm helping you fix it," Sadie said brightly. "You're forgetting I used to be a cheerleader. I will cheer you on so damn hard the pep will haunt your dreams."

Elliott wasn't quite sure how to respond to that, which was fitting, because a lot of the time they weren't quite sure of how to respond to Sadie.

"I know what the obvious answer is," Elliott admitted, and their voice cracked. "I'm just... I'm scared of it."

Sadie's fingers twined with theirs. "You don't have to be," Sadie said. "I'm right here. It's okay. We're just talking hypotheticals right now, okay?"

"Saying it makes it real."

"Thinking it does the same thing, and you've thought it already. I have too."

Elliott sighed. "You've wanted me to—" Elliott gestured vaguely rather than say it, "From the start."

"Go on," Sadie said, voice a hush. "You're almost there. You've almost said it."

Elliott let their eyes fall open, staring at the ceiling.

"I want to break up with him."

* * *

_before making it real—_ Mitchell and Elliott were laughing more than they were breathing, pulled over on some abandoned country bumpkin road at 3 AM, music blasting from the radio.

"Tell me a secret," Mitchell demanded, because this was a game he liked to play. 

Elliott was laughing too hard to hear him, though, and Mitchell shrieked it again in a funny voice that set Elliott off again.

"Oh, God," Elliott managed to gasp, "I can't—I can't think of anything, I'm—" they broke down into giggles again, and somewhere in there Mitchell's hands found their cheeks and Elliott was kissing him silly over the center console, cackling into the kiss.

* * *

_after a failed attempt at following through with reality—_ Words and phrases got stuck in Elliott's head like songs, sometimes. And their meeting with Picani had brought their brain plenty to work with. But there was just one word that was echoing around their head like some kind of clock tower bell.

_Malachite. Malachite. Malachite._

They stuck the word into google. Mostly images of pretty green dappled gems popped up. Elliott paused, and looked up  _malachite meaning_  instead.

 _A stone of balance in relationships._ Of course it was. Elliott clicked on a different link.

_Protectiveness, leadership, and confidence. A stone of transformation. Mirror of the soul. A reminder of dual nature. Remove what is weak and toxic._

That didn't sound all bad. Elliott had never been a leader, and they were hardly confident at all, but  _protective_  could work. It was pretty, like they'd first thought when hearing the name, all shades of captivating clear green. 

They looked up  _malachite steven universe._

 _Formed through extortion and deception, and held together out of revenge.  It is the worst relationship imaginable._  Elliott hardly thought that their and Mitchell's relationship was the worst imaginable, but—

— _but Mitchell was strong like Jasper was, and Lapis was stranded in herself like Elliott was sometimes, and Jasper and Mitchell echoed each other with "I've changed you've changed me" chasing themselves in circles around and around in their head—_

Elliott took a breath, and clicked out of the window.

* * *

Elliott had systematically picked off all the black nail polish from their nails except for a few stubborn clusters on their right ring finger, which they were working on with fervor as their mocha grew cold.

They had sent Mitchell a  _let's get together_ text, and Mitchell had agreed. They mapped out a place and time. Elliott had tacked a _good, we need to talk_ text at the very end that Mitchell hadn't deigned to respond to, and it had made Elliott fume.

And Elliott had been sitting alone in this coffee shop for fifteen minutes, with three unanswered texts sent Mitchell's way.

Elliott eyed the clock, nudged their coffee, and glanced out of the window, before looking down at their phone and texting Sadie.

_He isn't here yet._

_dickhead,_ Sadie sent back almost immediately.

_I'm giving him five more minutes._

_i'm here whenever you need me_

It took three before some very frayed thread inside of Elliott snapped with all the force of a falling anvil. They picked up the phone and clicked Mitchell's contact picture. 

Voicemail. Of course.

"Right," Elliott said abruptly into the phone. "Clearly when I tell you that we need to talk, that isn't important enough for you to listen. Clearly when I ask you to come see me in public, that doesn't make a blip on your radar unless we do it on your terms. So I'll cut it up nice and short and neat for you so you don't have to waste any more of your time. We're done, Mitchell. I'm done. We're broken up. I'm not going to contact you again. This was the final straw."

Elliott hung up, and noticed that the heads in the coffee shop had swiveled in their direction. Elliott shrunk into themself, but an old lady said, "You tell him, dear," and there was a confused smattering of applause.

Elliott tried their best to smile, and ducked their head, before going to dump their untouched mocha in the trash.

Sadie was waiting in their apartment when they got back.

"He didn't even show up," Elliott said, feeling small and confused and numb.

"So what are you going to do?" Sadie asked.

"I left him a voicemail telling him I was ending it."

Sadie nodded, clear and sharp, and said, "Good. Good. If he treats you badly, you can cut it off on your terms. You tried telling him and he wasn't listening. Do you need anything right now?"

Elliott hesitated, shrugged, and ended up on the couch with their head on her lap, their face pressed into her stomach as she petted their hair.

Elliott couldn't cry. They were too tired to cry.

* * *

Elliott picked Dr. Picani from the Google results of couples therapists in their area and price range for three reasons.

One, because he was highly rated, and because Mitchell would want someone who knew what they were talking about.

Two, because when Elliott had mentioned to Sadie that they were starting to look for a therapist and would maybe like some help picking one out, Sadie had liked Picani's web design, which apparently made all the difference in the world to her.

Three, because he looked soft, and bright, and _different,_  and Mitchell liked people who were soft and friendly and quiet, and Elliott knew how much the world liked to stomp on people who were different and thought that this man probably did too. 

* * *

When Mitchell invited Elliott over to his house for the first time, Elliott didn't even see the intent behind it until they were back at their apartment, curled up in a blanket on the couch.

It was fun, almost; they had talked about a TV show they both liked, and Mitchell soundly trounced Elliott at a video game Elliott had recognized and played a couple times five years ago. Mitchell had made Elliott pancakes and nodded approvingly when Elliott asked if he had peanut butter to put on top. He had dramatically talked about how bad he must have been at cooking if Elliott couldn't finish their stack, and Elliott had fallen over themself assuring him that the pancakes were good, they'd just had a big breakfast, really—

They were sitting on his bed when Mitchell dug out his phone.

"Just a game I like to play with new friends, that's all," Mitchell said. "If you're uncomfortable with any of the dares, you can swap it out for a truth, if you want."

"Oh," Elliott said, and then because they didn't have any better ideas on what else to do, "Okay."

Elliott peeked at the phone screen. It seemed straightforwards enough: blue, with  _truth_ on one half of the screen and  _dare_ on the other half.

Elliott could pinpoint the question that started to make them feel like growing a shell and hiding under it.

"Dare," Mitchell read aloud. "Swap shirts with another person for three turns." 

Mitchell had been wearing a tank top and Elliott had been wearing a black t-shirt that was too big for them. Mitchell had been halfway through taking off his shirt before adding, "If you're comfortable, of course."

 _It's just a shirt,_ Elliott told themself, and wiggled out of their t-shirt and into Mitchell's threadbare tanktop as fast as they could. It was red. It hung too loose on Elliott's frame. Elliott plucked at the collar and adjusted the hem so there would be the least amount of their chest showing.

The questions continued, and the next dare was Mitchell's,  _give your opponent a lapdance for thirty seconds._

Mitchell stood, and stretched. "Well," he said, a little smug, "I'm pretty good at this, so I'd say yes, if I were you."

Elliott's lips had twitched, then. "Are you really, or did someone tell you that to make you feel less bad?" _It's just a dance._

"You're about to find out," Mitchell said, and then turned on some Beyoncé and flung off Elliott's t-shirt.

The first thing that had hit Elliott was  _warm,_ and then  _his eyes are so pretty._

Mitchell hadn't been smiling, as he danced. He had been staring into Elliott's eyes, serious and calm, and Elliott had felt unsettled by it, weighted and drawn in, and then Mitchell was pushing their shoulders so they’d lie back on the bed.

 _Wait I didn't want this_  came in a rush, and it took Elliott what felt like forever but must have been three seconds to get past the choking feeling in their throat to say, "I think that's been time, don't you?" They were impressed by how blasé they had sounded.

Mitchell sighed, and straightened up, and smugly took the look on Elliott's face to mean that they were stunned by the dance.

"I told you I was good," he said smugly, and Elliott said, "It's definitely been three turns" and squirmed out of Mitchell's tank top, handing it back as they hunted for their abandoned t-shirt. They felt safer in the swimming black fabric.

Elliott, even now, didn't know why they sat back on the bed and kept playing. 

Elliott had picked a dare after Mitchell kept bugging them about the fact that they had been picking truths for a while now, and Mitchell read aloud, "Make out in a closet for one minute."

Mitchell glanced back up, and waggled his eyebrows at Elliott. "Want to?"

"Okay," Elliott said, because it was just a kiss, and Mitchell took them by the hand and led them to the closet, where Elliott left the door open by a crack so the light could spill in.

"Shut the door, silly, the dark is half the fun of it," Mitchell said, and Elliott could hear his smile as he reached to shut the door himself and Elliott tried not to think _trapped_.

And then Elliott felt the warmth of him, and Mitchell breathed out, "So how long's it been since you kissed someone?" and moved in, keeping his hands respectfully on Elliott's shoulders.

The kiss hadn't been particularly special. Elliott didn't feel butterflies, or fireworks, or any other kind of cliché. Just Mitchell's warm body pressed against theirs, a tongue pressing in, the weight of hands on their shoulders. 

They broke to breathe, and Elliott said, "A few months. I dunno."

"Why?" Mitchell asked, taking Elliott's hands in his own from where they'd been hanging uselessly at their side and pressing them up against his hips before moving in to kiss them again.

Elliott was pressed back against the closet wall. Elliott knew that if they jerked their head to one side, either way, they would hit a hanger with their head. Mitchell had taken them in here to show them one of his guns earlier. Elliott's hands were hesitant on Mitchell's hips.

"Just didn't have the opportunity, I guess," Elliott said when they broke apart again, and they went back to Mitchell's bed. 

Mitchell took to holding the phone and asking truth or dare so he could press the buttons. The questions grew gradually more uncomfortable: when was the last time they had sex, did they watch porn, did they have any kinks? Elliott tried their best not to squirm and even with all of Mitchell's teasing did not go for a dare again.

Mitchell went to the bathroom, and Elliott glanced at his phone from where he had left it on the bed.

The screen had gone orange. Elliott frowned, and tapped at the menu.

There were categories, for this truth or dare app.  _Basic_ was blue.  _Family-friendly_ was green.  _Sexy_ was orange.

Elliott suddenly felt very cold. They clicked it open to the same screen it had been on before, set the phone where it had been, and pulled out their own phone.

 _are you available,_ he sent to Sadie.

 _yes ofc i'm surgically attached to my phone,_ Sadie sent back, then _why?_

_I need you to call me in like five minutes with a fake emergency_

_uncomfy social situation, got it_

Mitchell was in the middle of deliberating if he wanted a truth or a dare when Elliott's phone rang.

"Sorry," Elliott said, not actually sorry at all, and picked it up. "Hello?"

"You're going to have to tell me all the drama with this once you're out of there, you know," Sadie informed them. "Tell whoever you're with that my car broke down and I need you to give me a ride, or something, did you drive to wherever you're currently having a crisis?"

"You what?" Elliott asked.

"Jesus, you're hopeless at acting," Sadie said with a sigh.

"What street?"

They could hear the distant strain of music in the background. "Oh, Elliott, come rescue me, et cetera, et cetera," she wailed in a high-pitched voice.

"I told you a million times to go to the mechanic," Elliott said, except that was actually true, because the  _service engine soon_ light had been on in Sadie's car for about six months now.

"Yeah, okay, whatever," Sadie said, "do you know how expensive the mechanic is? No thank you."

"Okay," Elliott said, sending an apologetic glance at Mitchell, who was looking at them in a kind of passively curious way. "I'll be right there. You owe me."

"Um, that is  _vice-versa_ and you  _know_ it," Sadie said, before Elliott hung up and turned to Mitchell.

"I'm sorry, I've gotta go," Elliott said. "My friend's car got messed up and she needs a ride to the mechanic."

"Oh, yeah, 'course," Mitchell said, halfway standing. "Can I drive you, or—?"

"Well, I mean, I drove, it would just be a waste of gas," Elliott said. "But, um, thanks." They were halfway down the stairs.

"I'll text you," Mitchell called after their back.

"Bye, Mitchell, thanks for the pancakes," Elliott yelled back, and shut the door behind them, walking fast to their car, like Mitchell would catch them in the middle of the lie and give chase.

* * *

The second time Elliott sat alone in Dr. Picani's office, Picani got to finish his song.

"Do you how do?" He asked, bright, and Elliott felt like hiding when they saw surreptitious glance Picani gave to the empty side of the couch.

"Good," Elliott said, and sighed at the empty cushion. "I think."

Picani paused, and sat in the chair in front of the couch, fishing out a clipboard. "Did everything turn out okay? You were out of here in a hurry last week."

"I—oh. Yes. I was just—overreacting."

(Mitchell had screamed it at them and Elliott had snapped back because Elliott couldn't yell in anger like Mitchell could, and when all the dust had settled and they were on different sides of the house trying to calm down Elliott wondered just how many fights of theirs had ended because Mitchell was louder and louder and louder than Elliott who was just so  _tired)_

Picani frowned, and said, "Your emotions are valid. There's no such thing as overreacting; there's just reacting. If you were startled, or scared, of course you were going to react to it."

Elliott swallowed, said, "Right," and felt the emptiness beside them too intensely.

* * *

It had almost been a week of Elliott forcing themself to close out the notifications without reading with Mitchell's number, of silencing their phone, of trying to avoid anything that reminded them of Mitchell, and they felt like utter shit for it.

"I thought a breakup was supposed to be good for me," Elliott said into Sadie's belly, because Sadie had come over to pet their hair again.

Sadie breathed, and Elliott could feel it against their forehead. "Haven't you ever seen a rom-com, El? You're allowed to feel sad and mope about it. It's practically the law."

"Even when," Elliott began, and didn't finish their sentence.

"Even if he made you feel bad when you were with him," Sadie said. "Yes. You're allowed to feel bad about this, hon. I know it hurts now, but you'll come out stronger for it."

 _Then why do I feel so weak all the time,_ Elliott thought, and missed Mitchell asking them what they were thinking about when Sadie let them stew in silence for the rest of her visit.

Elliott curled up on their sofa, and ordered in Chinese food for dinner. They didn't have enough energy for cooking, and they couldn't muster up the strength to sleep alone in a big cold empty bed, so the couch was their home base, now.

Elliott blinked their way awake when they heard knocking at their door. They hadn't even noticed they were drifting off. They wrapped a blanket around their shoulders, and with some tip money in hand, went for the door.

Mitchell tripped when Elliott opened the door, tripped his way forwards, but held himself back from touching Elliott at the last moment, hands shuttering open and shut before pulling away from Elliott's face, to shove his fists into his pockets.

Elliott's grip tightened at the blanket. They didn't step away. They didn't give up their ground. There was a word that was squirming just on the edges of their thoughts.

"I thought you were delivery," Elliott said, and their voice was scratchy and rough and deeper than usual. 

"Sorry to disappoint," Mitchell said, tilting up on his toes, his extra inches on Elliott even more apparent. The word squirmed louder. "Can I—Can I come in?"

"I broke up with you," Elliott said, fingers twisting and twisting and twisting in their blanket cape. "You didn't even show up for me to tell you that we were broken up. Are you here to fix that?"

"I want to fix  _us,"_ Mitchell said, and it was the closest to begging Elliott had ever heard from him, and he settled back on his heels again. "Elliott, please."

 _Frantic,_ Elliott thought, looking at Mitchell. That was the word. Mitchell looked  _frantic._ He had probably been tugging his hands through his hair. He had probably been pacing outside of their door. And Elliott had been asleep.

"You didn't show up," Elliott said. "You  _never_ show up. You picked  _now,_ of all times, to start showing up?"

 _"Elliott,"_ Mitchell said, agonized with it, "I thought you were going to ask about moving in!"

Elliott blinked. Once. Twice. Neither time wiped Mitchell from their view, like Mitchell would be some kind of mirage.

"Why the _hell—"_

"You said  _we need to talk_! You started leaving over a charger and spare shirts!"

"Don't make _your_ misunderstanding into _my_ fault—"

"—I'm not  _trying to,_ Elliott, would you just let me talk?!"

Elliott forced in a deep breath, and crossed their arms, and tilted their eyebrows. A silent  _so talk, then._

Mitchell paused to breathe, and said, "Sometimes I think you forget that I'm not a mind reader. I'm not the best at reading people. I don't know you're feeling unless you  _tell me,_ Elliott, and you  _never_ tell me. I'm always in the dark, wondering if you're happy or sad or upset or just  _fine,_ because you never tell me how you're feeling, or how your day was. I was so  _blindsided_ when I got your voicemail because I didn't even know that you thought something was  _wrong."_

"Something  _was_ wrong, Mitchell, we were fighting all the time—"

"—and I know that, okay? I _know_ that. And it's something I have to work on, and—and you can't just cut off a relationship without an explanation, Elliott, a relationship means  _two people,_ a relationship means you're on each other's teams, a relationship means that you try to talk it out before just—just  _ending_ it with a  _voicemail._ Relationships are never so cut and dry."

Elliott thought about  _on each other's teams._ Elliott thought about three am meals in abandoned Steak 'n Shakes. Elliott thought about the big, cold, empty bed. Elliott thought about feeling weak.

With Mitchell, they felt reckless.

"When you say you know you have to work on it," Elliott hedged.

Mitchell's eyes crinkled, and he said, "I know there are things I have to change. Things  _we_ have to change. But I'm different now, okay? _I've_ changed. You've changed me. And I don't... I don't want to lose that, Elliot. I don't want to lose  _you._ Let's talk this out, okay? No yelling."

Elliott's eyes closed, and opened, and they said, "Chinese food's on the way."

"That's a start," Mitchell said, and he beamed at them, and for a second—

For a second, Elliott thought everything was going to be okay.

* * *

There was over a year and a half's trivia about Mitchell that Elliott had quietly tucked away in their head.

Mitchell's favorite color was blue. He dabbed the grease off of pepperoni pizza with paper napkins before eating it. He used to smoke but he quit because it was too expensive. Mitchell's eyes would crinkle just so before bursting into laughter. He preferred curly fries to waffle fries. He had a mole on his left hip that Elliott liked to trace whenever his shirt rode up. He used to watch  _My Little Pony_ and now loudly denounced it. He could bench press Elliott's body weight and then some. An awful thing had happened to him and Elliott had quietly sworn to themself that they would never tell another soul what had happened to him without his express permission. He ate eggs for breakfast most mornings. He could superheat his hands by rubbing them together for ten seconds at high speed, and he swore that the temperature got up to 130°. He could drink a plastic bottle of water in five seconds.  _But I'm A Cheerleader_ had played a major role in coming out and subsequently storming away from his family. Mitchell would eat more than Elliott ever could at any given meal. He loved chicken.  He had almost become a stripper in his college years to supplement his income, and had taught himself how to give a lapdance. He had a scar on the sole of his right foot from where he'd stepped on a burning coal at a bonfire. He had three guns; one tucked away in his closet, one in his nightstand, and a rifle in his living room. He had shelves dedicated to the Lego figures he collected and built as a hobby.

Elliott didn't know what that all added up to, but often they wondered which many pieces of themself they'd thoughtlessly given away that Mitchell clung to like they did.

* * *

Elliott thought that was funny in the not-funny way that they spent most of their day trying to fight the sleep from their eyes, but as soon as their head hit the pillow, their brain clouded up in a way that was almost too much.

Mitchell was already breathing deep and even and quiet beside them. His back was to them. Elliott closed their eyes, and tried their best to sort through it, to try to sink back into that elusive sleep waiting for them impatiently.

Sadie's voice was stuck in their head this week, so they listened idly, thinking about what she had been talking about the last time they had met up, drifting and drifting and drifting,  _except—_

_"I haven't been telling you things," she said, and the ghost of Sadie because this must be a ghost because they have never seen her so lifeless, laying alone and despondent and still on the bed with her eyes shut and her skin stretched pallid over her cheeks, "I'm just scared of the answer."_

_You know I'll be here to help you, thought Elliott, and ghost-Sadie smiled, tight and anxious, except that wasn't a Sadie-smile because Sadie-smiles were always bright and fully meant and selfish and it looked like she was barely even trying, trying only for their sake, not for her own._

_"I'm just so **tired,** El," ghost-Sadie whispered, "I'm so tired of it. Of everything."_

A wave of emotions came cresting up into their chest, so strong and powerful that it startled them after weeks of feeling like they were wandering through life in a half-sleeping daze, and Elliott was so shocked at the  _rage_ , the sharp keen helplessness that they jerked to sitting up in their bed, hand going to where their heart was thumping in their chest.

It didn't take them very long to place where their mind had stolen the words.

 _ _Is this how Sadie feels all the time now?_ _ Elliot thought, and then,  _you two should see a therapist._

Elliott thought of all the shapes their life could take, stretching out in front of them in a dizzying array of paths, and Elliott only knew that they didn't want the ones where the most powerful emotion they felt that month was because of some half-remembered half-dream spurring them into action, they didn't want the ones where Elliott stormed alone out of a coffee shop and had Mitchell trip at their front door a week later, they didn't want the shapes of their life that looked like cycles.

 _Okay, Sadie,_ Elliott thought.  _Okay._


End file.
